


Candid

by inmyriadbits, Spatz



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cell Phones, M/M, Photographs, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inmyriadbits/pseuds/inmyriadbits, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/pseuds/Spatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He picks up the phone: one picture message, from 'Reese'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neery/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [candid 偷拍（Translation/翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697516) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



> Once upon a time, spatz was bored at work, and inmyriadbits sent her the basis of this story via text message, then let her flesh it out as a present for neery. Happy belated birthday!

It's a quiet day in the library – reprogramming his bluejacking protocol to cover the latest smartphone updates – when Harold's text alert goes off. 

He frowns at his phone: it's the one he uses for work, hooked up to a rotating buffer of cloned IMEIs. Very few people even have one of the numbers that will be rerouted to this phone, and none of them like to text.

The last message he'd received on this phone had been from John, telling Harold that he was strapped to a bomb vest. 

He picks up the phone: one picture message, from 'Reese'. With an unpleasant sense of deja vu, he clicks it open – and then starts to laugh.

The picture is simple: black stencil graffiti of a CCTV camera, with blocky text saying BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU. It shouldn't be funny, considering the source of the quote, but Harold knows John sent it as a joke. He can practically picture John's tiny smirk as he took the picture, with Bear sitting patiently at his feet, head cocked at his owner's odd behavior.

The idea makes Harold laugh again, and he goes back to work with a smile still lingering on his face.

* * *

John keeps doing it. Never while they're working, never with any commentary. Just small things: wildflowers tucked up against the base of a parking meter, a girl hugging her father's leg, a group of friends laughing on the subway.

For the first week, Harold looks to see if there's some hidden meaning in the pictures. He plots their locations through the GPS on John's phone, searches for steganography or abnormal metadata, runs facial recognition on the people. John doesn't favor such coded messages, but he checks anyway.

He finds nothing, and finally admits to himself that the pictures are exactly what they seem: things John finds beautiful, and wants to share. 

When he accesses John's phone, he discovers other pictures that John never sent: a redhaired woman in a crowd in Chinatown (lens flare), a dog running beside a man in Central Park, their strides matched (slightly blurry), a shattered bottle covered in rain (stray water drop on the camera lens). Harold decides John was just too much of a perfectionist to send them, but he likes them. They are not art, but there's a rough honesty to them that he savors. John has been his eyes and ears and hands in their work for so long that he feels greedy for wanting this, too, but he does.

So he sets up an alert to forward all future pictures that aren't sent to his computer, where they can be archived. It's useful for the numbers – in case something ever happens to John before he can text a picture, it might mean the difference between finding him and an...unacceptable outcome – so Harold decides not to bring it up.

* * *

One day, in the wake of an unusually short case – the number had come in, unexpectedly, at 2 AM, and John had finished tying up the last of the mercenaries targeting Ms. Leone by 8:37 AM exactly – Harold falls asleep in the library at his desk.

He wakes to sunlight glancing off the white side of an insulated paper cup. John is standing above him, one hand resting casually on the back of his chair.

“Should I have asked for a shot of espresso to go with that green tea, Finch?” he asks. His features are slightly blurry, but Harold can still see the fond smile curling up the side of his mouth as he leans over Harold.

Harold makes a disgusted face and gropes for his glasses, finding them tucked up against the keyboard. He's saved from making a suitably scathing retort by the quiet chime of his computer, alerting him to some new information. Still sleepy, he opens the file without looking at the source.

A picture spreads itself across the screen and Harold feels weirdly disoriented for a moment: the picture is of himself, sleeping in front of his computer. The late afternoon sunlight is streaming through the library windows, limning his hair and threading fingers down the side of his face, golden and warm. He looks....

Behind him, John tenses, and Harold can feel his hand slide off the back of the chair. When Harold turns, John is sticking his hands in his pockets – as if that could hide anything.

He recognizes what happened, finally, his mind moving honey-slow and thick. John took a picture and didn't send it; John takes pictures of things that are beautiful to him. The conclusion is unmistakable, and impossible.

“John,” he says, unsure – but John's face tightens, like he's bracing for a hit, and Harold can't bear it. He pushes out of his chair, gripping John's arm tight when he tries to back away, and darts in for a kiss.

John freezes, and Harold moves closer, gentling his mouth, seeking out the subtle curve of John's lower lip. The moment stretches, and Harold's kiss becomes a question, his heart pounding in his ears – surely he had seen it correctly, surely he hadn't made a mistake....

Then John's arm is relaxing under his hand, sliding up and around Harold's back as he tilts his head just so, parts his lips until they are breathing each other in. Harold stumbles back a little at the shift, but John is there, holding him up until they come to rest against the edge of the desk. He nudges forward, lean and powerful and yet strangely tentative, pressing the length of his body against Harold's and kissing him again and again.

John pulls back a little at last, and his breath is too quick against Harold's cheek, his hands flexing in the folds of Harold's shirt, nervous. Harold runs a hand down his back, soothing. He searches for the right words, and finds none.

John watches him carefully – ten full seconds, which Harold counts off in his head – and then he smiles, bright and rare and beautiful, and leans in for another kiss.


End file.
